


Wolf Like Me

by Incog_Ninja, Rhanon_Brodie



Category: Actor RPF, American Actor RPF, Norman Reedus - Fandom, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Breathplay, Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:25:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Incog_Ninja, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhanon_Brodie/pseuds/Rhanon_Brodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Need, longing, missing you when you're gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf Like Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nmbr1Fanilow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nmbr1Fanilow/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Nmbr1fanilow!
> 
> This is the first time Brodie and I have written anything together and it was like really great sex, so I hope you all love our lovechild as much as we do. xox

The warmth of your scent surrounds me, lurking in my senses before I’m even fully awake.  Beside me, the sheets are cool, and a faded murmur lingers in my head from only hours before.  You’d pressed your lips to my ear and told me to stay, to wait, that you’d be back later in the day.  The thought both bolsters and bothers me – I’ve never clung, and I don’t intend to start, but some days it’s hard to watch you walk out the door, even though you are good on your promises to return later and spend every minute making up for the ones we’ve been apart.  With a listless sigh, I turn over and stretch, four hundred thread count slick and smooth against my skin, and your scent – that mellow citrus and bergamot scent – clings to me and I groan, helpless, as memories flit back to me.

 

There are dinners by the light of a single taper burning between us, cross-legged on the hardwood, hole-in-the-wall Szechuan noodles and import beer, sticky fingers, empty bottles, and slowly winding tongues.  My hips grind into the mattress in remembrance of your firm hands, the way that one time you turned me over on my knees, took up every slick, hot inch you could get inside of me, and fucked me into the floor.  The hardwood had warmed under my knees and the side of my face, and I’m sure I screamed and cried so much that I gave your downstairs neighbors something to talk about for days.  I ached after, deep in my bones, and in my heart, because I knew that you got me, and I got you, and the missing skin from my shoulder made a tiny scar to remind me of that.

 

I missed your kiss this morning.  I miss your kisses right after we kiss.  We’ve shared hundreds, if not thousands; it’s your favorite thing, really, beyond touching or stroking your fingers over any inch of me you can get at.  You kiss like you mean it, like you invented it, like you’ll die without it, and I remember the first time you kissed me, in the October rain, in SoHo.  It was a random street, and we had wandered around after dinner, fingers linked from time to time, and then you pulled me back into a doorway, your hands cupping my face and tilting it up, your body moving so that no one else could see us, and the breadth of your shoulders blocked out the light so there was only sound, and taste, and the electric feel between.  The soft gasp you let out makes me weak as I lay here, my fingertips skating over my lips in a poor replacement for your mouth.  I miss your tongue stroking mine. I miss your teeth in my bottom lip, and the way you grunt and push your hips into mine, conveying so much more than a chaste press of mouths.

 

If my lips are your salvation, then your intensity is my drug, and my breath comes faster when I think of the things I’ve let you do to me.  I welcomed each one with an open mind, and you never disappoint, pushing me beyond what I thought my limits were, making me feel a bursting in my nerves and my heart that I hadn’t even read about before.  I didn’t know I’d like the pain you provided as you worked me through one orgasm after another with only your fingers, and I was overused and abused, swollen, slick, and ‘ _so fucking pretty and pink_ ’, words that were seared into my brain the moment you growled them.  Your eyes had glowed as you looked to me for reassurance, for guidance, and that is what makes me more breathless than when your grip closes over my throat and holds me down to your will.

 

* * *

 

Fuck this day. It’s too damn early, cold and dark, and my bed was warm and smelled like us when I left.

 

You kissed me goodbye without even knowing it, half asleep and dreaming. God, you’re beautiful like that—always, but especially in that deep fuck-induced slumber, serene and hushed, your cheeks and forehead smooth, no worries, following your instincts and what your body knows to do. Yeah, you’re always beautiful in all your ways. Sometimes you look at me like you’re barely hanging on, a desperation in your wide eyes. Are you scared? Are you going to run? Will you be there when I get home tonight? But then I know you’re in this with me. You’re always with me, and you know I’m with you. Your acceptance, your surrender—it swallows me whole. It blows my mind the way you bend and twist and buckle. You succumb to my every whim, and you love it. I think you need it, and so do I.

I need _you_ more, though—your skin and your lips and your scent and your taste. Your blood and your breath hold secrets, humming, murmuring, guiding me. Sometimes I think I’m the one who’s yielding. I don’t even want to think about not having you, not touching you, never being allowed to make you move and moan and come, holding back, biting my tongue, sitting on my hands. Those marks on your skin, if they weren’t there, or if someone else had left them, I couldn’t bear it. If I saw you on the street, and you didn’t know me...

 

I wish you could see your face; euphoric doesn’t come close to covering it. I don’t think there is a word to describe the utter fucking bliss right before your eyes roll back and your lashes flutter, your lips gasp, my hand turning your ivory skin bright pink between my fingers. That look on your face tells me everything I need to know. It’s what tells me right where to stop. That moment of rapture that can’t be trumped up, and that neither of us ever want to miss—delicate and volatile and so fucking real.

 

And you beg me—so sweet. You beg me to hurt you just a little bit more. Do you know what that fucking does to me? You can’t know. You have to know it drives me crazy, but what exactly it does, you can’t know. You push me to the edge, baby, you really do. But your eyes and that vibration from your skin—you’re like a magnetic field that won’t let me drop away. There are no limits because we’ll always be here for each other. Neither of us can fall, not from here, and I’ll always come back to you.

 

You’re such a good girl. Sometimes I don’t even have to tell you what to do; you know what Daddy likes, what he needs. But then, I do like to play with you, fuck with you a little bit. You like it, too, even though I see that frantic look in your eyes when it happens; but that’s part of the ride, right? Then you remember where you are and who _we_ are, and that I’m going to take care of you, and you relax. And you let me do whatever I want. You trust me. You’ll never know how much that means to me, that you trust me with your body and your mind. You don’t hold back and you don’t expect me too, either.

 

* * *

 

When I’m alone, like I am right now, it’s these thoughts that keep me company: warm, naked skin, the stray freckles along your shoulders, and your ink and scars like a map of all the places my lips have landed.  You’re too fucking delectable to not sink my teeth into, and I think you like it when I tease, and you like it when you hurt and I’m the cause of it.  There was no way for me to tell that you liked to get as much as you got, until my hands stay you, and grip you, and hold you down until you’re begging through clenched teeth.  You sweat so well for me, and I’ve seen you shake a time or two – is that your guard coming down?  Is that when I see you for you, open and so utterly _mine_ that my breath comes in little gasps and I pant along with you?

 

Or is it when you’re deep inside, over or under, thick and hot either way, and you shove everything else aside with a steady, swift hand to my thigh, a rough, sharp order, telling me to hold still, or to speed up, or to _be a good girl and fucking come for Daddy_?  I’m consumed by you, drowning in you, pulled in an undertow of such abandon that sometimes I can’t even catch my breath before you’re at it again, and taking everything you can get your hands on.

 

I am wild with you, like I am with no other, and as I gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows along your bedroom wall, thoughts of a night in the dead of winter come back to me – do you remember?  I don’t think you could forget, because I can’t.  I can still feel the cold, smooth glass of the window where you pressed my palms to it, and the gentle graze of gauzy curtains against my shoulder as you moved to strip us both, completely bare and bared to anyone passing on the street below.  The glass is shocking and cool against my nipples, and my belly, and your hard, hot thigh slides between mine from where you hover behind me.  Your body throws heat like a furnace and draws it from deep inside of me.  You’d slid to your knees between me and the glass, your head tilted back as you angled one leg over your shoulder, holding it steady.  You begged me to open my eyes; I hadn’t realized I’d shut them, and when I was faced with the vision of you waiting on me, I trembled, and moaned, and threaded my fingers deep into your thick dark hair.

 

I come for you like I’ve never done before with anyone: bright, fast, ferocious, wet.  Your tongue pulses better than anything else, darting in, sliding down, circling, and I was blushing and cringing, and unable to look away as you held me open and captive.   Your nose grinds up nerves until I’m raw and shaking.  Somewhere between a sob and a curse, you stood and turned me once more, until I was helpless against the glass, my back squeaking along the surface as it slicked with my sweat, and where you clutched at my thighs, bruises remained for an entire week.  Every time I got dressed – or undressed – I touched those marks, pressing against them to feel the dull ache of pain that was nothing but a balm compared to you.

 

* * *

 

Feeding on fever, down on all fours, I show you what all that howl is for. You tell me it’s never been this way, you’ve never felt this way.  I don’t know how to tell you that, but I can show you that I feel the same. You’re the best I’ve ever had—my favorite playmate, my favorite toy. I show you hard and hot and fast, blood and fire and sweat. Babydoll, I’ll show you everything, blow your mind the way you blow mine, keep you guessing.

 

It’s just you and me, skin on skin, sweat and tears, and _fuck_ it’s good. It’s always so good, better than, but what the fuck can I say? What’s a better word than ‘good’ when we both feel it? Does it even matter, the word? No, it doesn’t fucking matter. All that matters is that we keep doing it, that we keep feeling it, that we keep making it good.

 

Like the first time we kissed, it’s just been one, long dance. It’s never-ending and we’re always connected. I can still taste your pussy on my fingers and my lips because you’re part of me, seeping through my skin, down into my bones. I’m sitting in the make-up chair, surrounded by my co-workers, and all I can think about is how wet you came against my face, on my hand, clenching my fingers so fucking tight. And you were loud. Your cry still echoes in my mind hours later. I didn’t think you could come anymore; you were so swollen and pink, but you were so pretty I couldn’t stop myself—and you let me.

 

You let me spread you out on the coffee table, push your knees up and open and bury myself to the hilt. You were willing and breathless, helpless, palms open and relaxed on either side of your flushed cheeks, your elegant fingers, slightly curled, and you took it all. You took everything I had and it was glorious. You felt full and slick like I’d never felt you before, and on each inward pass, I willfully took your breath away.

 

I close my eyes as the sounds around me fade away, and I can see and feel you, smell you. You’re muttering nonsense. I made you do that, fucked you senseless. How many times did you come already and now you’re throbbing around me again?

 

 _Such a pretty, little cunt_ , I tell you. _All mine_. I slip and slide and roll my hips. I grind against you, holding you open and all you can do is take it with a whimper. But there’s that look—here it comes. That look of ecstasy, divine fucking intervention, I don’t even know, and you gasp and your back arches and your skin glistens in the light of the moon. Your tits are jutting up and out and your arms are thrown wide, and you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever, ever seen in my life. Beneath me, around me, so hot and slick and raw—you’re the onslaught of perfection and intensity and everything I’ve ever wanted.

 

When you come, I come, ferocious and strained, on fire. I let your knees drop from my hands and pitch forward over you, onto you, rolling us both to the floor. You collapse on top of me, and we finally sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to the song Wolf Like Me by TV on the Radio for the title and the inspiration for a line.


End file.
